Reckless
by St. Aelphaba
Summary: He doesn't intend on being careful. Not tonight. Not anymore.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This fic is for all the people who reviewed my last Peter/Gwen ficlet and encouraged me to write some smut for them. Reviews are encouragement for me to finish part two and update! ;)

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His lips crash into hers and she pushes back at him, both meeting and resisting. Push and pull, the way her hands find his hair and pull him impossibly closer to her, but the way her lips drive into his almost hard enough to drive him away.

It might have been easy to slow down before everything happened, but right now the only thoughts that are running through his mind are fragments of sentences and little syllables here and there that could very well turn into very vocal moaning if he's not careful. (And he doesn't intend on being careful. Not tonight. Not anymore.)

He's been wanting her for months now. Months. October passed and saw her father's body buried with honors, and November and December saw snow and ice weathering the tombstone. Still Peter's stayed away as much as he could, only slipping up every once in a while. Muttering about being unable to keep promises on a cold day in late October. A chaste kiss to her cheek when he found her crying in her car during lunch on a stormy November day. A Christmas wish in the form of a text message in December. And he's swung by her apartment window more than a few times before remembering himself and his promise to stay away.

Now it's January. The fire escape outside of Gwen's window is icy, making Peter feel slippery, clumsy, uneasy. He hasn't felt this out-of-control of his body since before he got bitten.

Maybe that's a good thing tonight.

He's had it with keeping promises, with staying in control. He's tired of being careful - concealing his identity, concealing his feelings, hiding everything away to protect other people. He's a teenager, goddammit, and never in his life has he felt this reckless.

He wonders how Gwen feels in this moment, her lips so desperately pressed to his, her tongue darting out to meet his. Teeth nipping. Nails scraping. Does she feel the same edge of danger that's coursing through him? That same want? Is she as angry as he is? Is she as happy?

He has her backed against her open window. God, he is so _cold_. He hoists her body up to sit on the ledge, and his own body finds its place between her legs. Her skirt - so short in this weather, but then, he supposes she probably expected to spend the night in her heated building - is ridden up further than is decent, so he does the decent thing and splays his hands across her exposed thighs, covering her up. The result is her thighs spreading further apart for him, which was not his original goal, but hey, he's certainly not complaining about this new position. New sensations flood him now - her heat against him, and if it wasn't apparent that he wanted before, she definitely knows now. She rocks against him, emitting a tiny whimper into his lips, scraping his scalp with her nails. He groans and moves his hands up to cup her breasts, where the cold air is affecting her body in different ways. (Decency be damned. If anyone is watching them now, the last thing they will notice is that her legs are a little exposed.)

She shivers against him and breaks apart from him.

"Inside," she says. He's never heard a better idea. Inside, inside, under her shirt, inside her bra, under her skirt,_inside_ of her. Inside is a very good idea indeed.

She catches his hand as it tries to make its way under her blouse.

"I meant inside my apartment," she says with a smirk, kissing the hand she just caught before letting go and twisting her body over the sill and into her room. He follows quickly, reddening - though if that's from the sudden change of temperature or from being chastised, he couldn't (or wouldn't) say.

"Shut the window," she says. He obeys wordlessly. She considers him. "And the blinds."

And then she takes her shirt off.

It's as easy as that. Peter stares in wonder. This is more than he's ever seen of a woman in person, and she is_beautiful _in nothing but her wrinkled skirt and her white bra. Hands on hips, less shy than he'd expect her to be - no, he's suddenly the shy one.

"Come here," she says, sitting down on the edge of her bed and taking off her boots. Entranced, he sits down next to her, his eyes roaming all over her body, making notes of all the places he wants his hands to be. He kicks his shoes off waywardly.

"Where were we?" Gwen says, her smirk growing before it disappears in a blur of blonde hair and light pink skin, and then she's on top of him, pushing him backwards, kissing his lips and his jaw.

"I'm mad at you," she whispers, nipping at his earlobe. He shivers although he is no longer cold.

"I'm mad at me, too," he says, or more like breathes, as her legs straddle him and she pressed down into him once more, just _there_.

"My mom's out of town tonight," she says, lifting his shirt above his head. "This whole weekend, actually. She took my brothers to a science fair in Philadelphia."

"So…" Peter says, trailing off.

"So," Gwen says, punctuating the one-word sentence with a nod of the head and a bite of the lip, and then any questions he may have about what that means go away when her hands find their way to the button of his jeans and pop it open.

He knows if he waits any longer to ask, he'll be too far-gone to remember chivalry, so he swallows and chokes the words out while he can, "Are you su -?"

"Yes," she says. He opens his mouth to say something else, and she covers it with hers. "Shut. up," she murmurs into his lips. He marvels at how far the tables have turned, wonders what kind of ride she could take him on. Maybe not swinging across the city via spiderweb, but still a ride, still an adventure. Still just as reckless, he hopes, unclasping her bra from behind. (Spider-senses come in handy when it comes to the mechanics of women's underclothing. He has no idea how bras are supposed to work, but his hands know what needs to be done to get them off - and that's all he cares about in _this_ moment.)

She stops kissing him to let the scrap of clothing slide down her arms exposing the rest of her upper body, and now he couldn't keep his hands to himself if he tried. All the places his eyes mapped out he explores with his hands now. (He wonders if she would be opposed to oral exploration as well. For scientific reasons. To be thorough in his examination of the intricacies of her body.)

She throws her head back just slightly, her lips parted, her breathing coming in quiet hitches and sighs. He elicits the biggest reaction from her when his thumbs rub over her nipples, but she's also quite responsive to his fingers lightly stroking her collarbones.

With another soft sigh, she braces herself with her hands against his chest and then freezes. She looks down, her eyes wide, her fingers clenching slightly over gruesome scars from Peter's first battle with the lizard.

"Last time I saw those, they were red. Bleeding," she says, tracing the white lines.

"People heal," Peter says, unsure of what else to say. He's stuck in that feeling of push and pull, the desire to hold her tight and never let go, or to bury himself deep inside of her and ride through whatever it is between them, or to punish himself by pushing her away once more. He wants her, and he hates that he wants her, and he hates that he loves that she wants him.

It's complicated.

"Not all the way," Gwen says, pulling his mind back to her. "Still - it's worth it."

"Is it?" he asks.

She kisses him and nods.

"Yes," she breathes. Pushes herself off of him and says, "Take off your pants."

He doesn't need telling twice. He stands up and pushes his jeans off of his hips, feeling exposed in nothing but his boxers. A good kind of exposed, though - shy but reckless. A dangerous kind of exposed, he thinks, staring at Gwen's hips, just barely covered by her ridden-up skirt. He touches the skirt, meaning to push it down her legs gently.

The fabric sticks to his fingers.

It rips off.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I'd like to apologize for making y'all wait for so long. Between chapter one and now, I went on a giant family vacation, and I definitely didn't want to be writing smutty fanfiction with my family around. So I'm sorry that this has taken so long, I hope it meets your expectations, and as always, please review!

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_He stands up and pushes his jeans off of his hips, feeling exposed in nothing but his boxers. A good kind of exposed, though - shy but reckless. A dangerous kind of exposed, he thinks, staring at Gwen's hips, just barely covered by her ridden-up skirt. He touches the skirt, meaning to push it down her legs gently._

_The fabric sticks to his fingers._

_It rips off._

She looks up at him with a shocked expression, her mouth suspended open and her eyebrows raised in mock-offense.

"I am so sorry," he says, stumbling backwards. His feet are still tangled in his jeans, and he trips over them as he kicks them off and lands awkwardly on her bed.

"Not exactly in control, are we?" she says. Her eyes are crinkled in amusement. She thinks it's _funny_.

"Sorry," he repeats, ducking his head.

"Shh," she says. He looks back up, and she's right there, her fingers tracing his waistband, her eyes searching his. "It's okay, all right?"

He nods. And then she's pushing him backwards, making room on the bed for her own body, for her knees to plant on either side of his body as she straddles him. It's astounding, how fast this has moved, and Peter hasn't spoken to Gwen in months prior to this. But now, does it matter? And if it did, it would be too late anyway. She's assured him that she's sure, she's stripped him of his clothing, she's stripped him of his defenses. Tonight is happening.

He just doesn't know what tomorrow will bring.

Nor does he care. Not now, anyway. Not while she's undulating against him, trying to find the right amount of friction that will take her _there_. She's pointed it out - that he's not in control - but from what he can tell, she's hardly got a grasp on it either.

He wants to be inside her. He wants to watch her come undone, lose control completely, eat her own words about_his_ control. But he thinks the two events - being inside her and watching her come - might not coincide perfectly. He's never done this before, and he's so hard, and she's so hot and wet that he can just feel it through the layers of his boxers and her thin cotton panties, and he knows that a full combination of all these sensations would send him over the edge too fast. He needs to send her there first, or bring her close.

He slips his fingers under her waistband. "Can you -?"

She lifts herself off of him and shoves her underwear the rest of the way down and off her legs. He doesn't know where they land; he's too busy looking and feeling as her legs find their way back around his body and his hands find their way between her legs.

He hears her hiss, watches her eyes close and her mouth fall open. He moves his hand, dips a finger inside of her, receives a whimper in response. Two fingers; a moan. He curls them and grasps her hip with his other hand, holding her steady to him as her hips slowly begin to rock. Her hands find his shoulders as she braces herself against him.

He's fantasized about this, but he's never realized before this moment how much he would enjoy not just how she'd feel, but how she'd look and sound. She looks like she is in a blissful kind of pain, and she emits moans interspersed with sighs. His thumb finds her clitoris, finds a rhythm and a pattern that has her moans crescendoing and her nails digging into his shoulders and her muscles flexing and moving around his fingers. Her eyebrows furrowing and her mouth opening, she throws her head backwards as she comes and then comes down.

Yes. Watching her lose control is definitely his new favorite thing.

"You -" she says, breathing heavily and moving off of his lap and to the side. "Oh, god." She laughs breathily. "That was - good." He watches her swallow, his senses so attuned to her every movement.

"Yeah," he says, biting his lip. He wants to kiss her again, but doesn't know if she's finished with him now that she's finished herself.

God, he hopes not.

His question is answered when she reaches behind him to the shelf at the head of her bed and pulls out a foil package. She holds it up for him to see.

"Okay?" she asks. This is her way of asking if _he's_ sure. It strikes him again how reversible their roles are, how equal they are on all levels - at least, for tonight. He won't think about the inequality he has been imposing on her by keeping her away. Not tonight - that would be the opposite of reckless. This isn't the time for rationalization or epiphany. This is the time for Gwen's hands removing Peter's boxers and opening the condom wrapper. He watches her hands, so precise - and from what he knows of her, she's as inexperienced in the bedroom as he is, but her hands make a show of being so sure of themselves, pinching the tip of the condom and rolling it onto his head, down his cock, slowly, making sure there are no air bubbles. He barely conceals a groan as her hands work their way down him, and he didn't think something like latex protection would feel so amazing, but he thinks maybe it's her hands that are making this so good for him.

God, he is not going to last very long.

She pushes him down, climbs back on top, whispers, "I've never done this before." For the first time he catches a glimpse of a less-than-confident Gwen. Under her, under her vulnerability, he feels equally as vulnerable. And for the first time he lets himself wonder what _will_ happen after tonight.

"I haven't either," he says.

"Slow at first, okay?" she asks. She bites her lip, and Peter realizes why she seems so nervous - this might hurt for her. He nods, promises to go slow, hopes that he'll be able to control himself that much.

He'll find out soon - she is lowering herself onto him now, grasping his cock in her hands and slowly sliding herself onto him fully, and _oh_.

His face contorts into pleasure at the exact same time hers contorts into pain. He holds onto her hips, stays still, lets her adjust to him. "Okay?" he asks.

After a minute, she nods and tentatively rocks her hips, still grimacing in pain. He sucks in air through his teeth, barely able to think coherent thoughts; she's so tight around him, surrounding him on all sides, moving so slowly, and _god_, this feels _amazing_. He meets her torturously slow rocking, thrusting up, watching her begin to relax as the minutes go by.

It's probably better that she's on top right now, he thinks. She's the one in pain, so how right it is that she's also the one in control of their movements. He tries to be sensitive to her discomfort, but it's hard to empathize when the sensations he's feeling are so completely on the other end of that spectrum. He wants to go faster, wants to be the one on top of her, thrusting into her - but he'll wait.

The moment he hears her let out what sounds like a sigh of pleasure, he tests her out, thrusting a little harder. The pain on her face gives way to pleasure, and she rocks harder into him, raises and lowers herself onto him, her hands coming down to brace themselves on his shoulders once more.

"Can we - flip over?" he asks, wanting to communicate that he needs better leverage - needs to bury himself deeper inside of her, needs to be in control now - but not knowing how.

"Yes," she breathes. She understands. Or at least, she pretends to, allows him his turn in the movement they create together. She slides off of him and lies back on her bed. He crawls on top, positions himself between her legs, slides himself back in. A new angle, new sensations - or maybe he'd just forgotten, in the few seconds it's taken to change positions, just how good she feels. He remembers now, no longer holding back in his thrusting. Faster, _faster_ and harder and deeper if it's even possible, and she's practically assaulting his senses with the way she's letting out little breathy moans and closing her eyes and moving with and against him and running her hands down his chest, up his arms, through his hair.

There are so many things he's never expected to like: watching her face, for example, or having his hair pulled the way she's pulling at it now. There are also things he knew he'd love: the way her legs wrap around his hips, pulling him closer, and how the slick sound of fucking can be heard amidst their moaning.

He's not going to last much longer, and he knows it - can feel it coiling in him, starting somewhere between his legs and spreading through his chest and into his head. Tight warmth like how she feels around his cock, spread out through his whole body. He's so close, and it's so good, how fast she's taking him there, how much better this feels than any pleasure he's experienced on his own before, how loud he becomes when he finally hits his climax, grunting and stiffening and relaxing and sighing.

She unwraps her legs from around him as he pulls out and collapses next to her, feeling slightly guilty for not making her come a second time. She pulls him closer to her, tangles her legs with his, smiles devilishly at him, and then kisses him.

"This isn't how I was expecting to spend my night," she says, pulling away and pressing their foreheads together.

Peter laughs. "Me either."

He knows both of them are ignoring the elephant in the room, too wrapped up in each other in this moment to care. He wants to know as much as she does - _what now?_ Because he can hardly go back to ignoring her - not now, not after his memory's been refreshed about how wonderful she is, not after he's discovered so many new wonderful things about her. But can he really break the promise he made to her father?

He groans inwardly. No, no thinking about her father right now. Not when she's so naked and so close. It's dangerous, how much he wants to keep her now that he's had her.

And he's got the feeling that he just might be that reckless.

Gwen wraps her arms around his neck and leans on him, letting him fall backwards. "I'm tired," she says. "We're gonna talk about this in the morning." She lifts her head and looks at him. "That okay?"

He nods and hugs her body closer to his. He's got plenty of time tonight to mull over what will happen from here, but he has a feeling he already knows. He's had enough with skirting around it - Gwen is an unstoppable force in his life. It's time for him to stop trying to be an immovable object.

If that's reckless, then maybe he's reckless. Maybe in this case, reckless is what he needs. Not just tonight, but all the time. He can be a teenager by day and Spider-Man by night - he can balance recklessness and responsibility. He does already.

They'll talk tomorrow. He'll tell her, somehow, that he wants her, wants to stop staying away from her. He won't tell her how terrified he is of having her back, letting her in, potentially putting her safety in jeopardy. (She probably knows already anyway.)

He kisses her forehead and smiles, closing his eyes and relaxing into the bed. There's no going back now, he thinks. He is Gwen's.

Is that reckless?

He hopes so.


End file.
